Hi friend,
Last week, we talked about the body’s biological response to conflict — how our nervous systems hear disagreement and react as though we’re facing down a saber-toothed tiger. (ICYMI: read it here.)
Let’s go deeper. Because the Online Discourse™ about “a regulated nervous system” has been frying mine.
The TikTok pop psychology girlies (gender neutral, obvi) would have us out here thinking that regulated means calm. Unflappable. Aloof. Stoic. Utterly unfazed.
“She can’t regulate her nervous system,” someone says. It’s always dismissive — code for childish, too loud, too angry — a toddler melting down in a grocery store.
I think “she can’t regulate her nervous system” is just an evolution of “she’s too sensitive” — which itself is an evolution of “she’s hysterical.”
It’s just patriarchy’s take on emotions, rebranded for the post-therapy era.
And as Mona Eltahawy writes: “I want patriarchy to know that feminism is rage unleashed on its centuries of crimes.”
I’m an ex-orchestra kid, which means my crowning achievement in college was playing first stand second violin for our orchestra’s last performance: Mahler’s 5th Symphony.
If you haven’t listened to it, go. Take a long walk with noise-cancelling headphones. Bring tissues — you’ll need them.
The symphony starts off already angry — brass blaring over a roiling mess of strings. But then there’s this moment in the second movement where the bottom just absolutely falls out, the whole thing collapsing into an unholy abyss of grief and rage.
It sounds like betrayal.
Here’s what strikes me: that moment is the hallmark of a regulated nervous system.
That moment is the sound of a body safe enough to fully express its falling-to-your-knees-on-the-kitchen-floor, howling-with-grief-and-pain, bone-deep rage.
A nervous system that can’t rage — a body that forces itself to stay polite, calm, pleasant — that is a body in danger.
There’s even some evidence to suggest that repressing anger is linked to autoimmune diseases — a body tearing itself apart, in protest of its suppression.
Here’s what I want us to remember:
Anger is the smoke. Pain is the flame.
There is no anger without pain.
Rage serves as a shield in front of our wounds — our body’s way of saying something tender here demands protection.
So when anger shows up in conflict, the question isn’t “How do I ‘regulate’ and make this go away?”
The question is: What tenderness is my anger protecting?
Does anger need to be expressed safely, in ways that aren’t abusive or perpetuating harm? Absolutely.
But is its presence inherently the mark of a dysregulated nervous system? Absolutely not.
Rage isn’t a problem. It’s a diagnostic.
Sometimes, it’s the thing that stands between us and a tender wound too painful to face alone.
Mahler’s 5th doesn’t end in that abyss. After the rage that stands guard over the profoundest of griefs, it melts into one of the most stunning movements ever written — a love letter dedicated to Alma Mahler.
Something tender here demands protection.
So here’s what I’m curious about: What does your rage protect in conflict? What tenderness is it guarding?
And when anger shows up — do you step towards power, or do you let it clarify where you’ve been hurt?
If you feel like sharing, I’d love to hear what you’re noticing. Hit reply — I read every one.
